Authors: Reba White Williams
Determined to dazzle Bethany, Coleman, and Dinah with her detective work, Loretta took a taxi from her apartment to the Park Avenue building where Patti Sue Victor and Frances Johnson had lived. She expected to flirt her way past a doorman, so she had put on a sexy black suit and white blouse similar to the outfit Bette Davis wore after her makeover in
Now Voyager
. But her blouse was tighter and lower cut, and her skirt shorter than Bette’s. She had to make concessions to twenty-first century male tastes. She carried the black leather briefcase her roommates had given her for college graduation. She wanted to look like the reporter she’d pretend to be.
She chatted up the pony-tailed doorman, who gave as good as he got. When she was sure he was sufficiently smitten to gossip about the tenants, she asked about the lady who lived opposite Victor and Johnson.
“Orlando. She’s an old crow. She keeps her door open twenty-four seven so she can watch the hall action. She knows plenty about them two—they were her hobby. I swear to God she din’t think of nothin’ else,” he said.
He walked Loretta to the elevator and pressed the button for the seventh floor, still talking. “The old lady was divorced maybe seventy years ago. She’s ninety if she’s a day and mean as a snake, but she’s got all her marbles. She’ll talk your ear off if you give her a chance,” he warned.
When Loretta told Mrs. Orlando that she planned to write an article about Frances Johnson and Patti Sue Victor, the old lady welcomed her with an open door and a great gush of words. She talked so fast Loretta had difficulty understanding her, but when she calmed down, Mrs. Orlando made a vitriolic kind of sense.
“Both of them floozies had boyfriends,” she said. “Nasty fellas. They sneaked around like thieves—night crawlers, both of ‘em—didn’t ever take those women out. Only who could blame ‘em? Mutton dressed as lamb, and neither one had morals as good as an alley cat. What do you want to know?”
“Do you recognize any of these men?” Loretta fanned out the photos she’d taken of Harrison, Quintero, Moose Shanahan, and Mark Leichter.
Mrs. Orlando pointed a claw at Quintero. “That’s one of ‘em. He’s the one looks like a goombah, greasy hair an’ all. He was courtin’—if you can call it that—Frances. And this one”—she pointed to Leichter—“he’s the one sniffin’ after Patti Sue. Ugly old thing! Neither one of them men would win a beauty contest, but then, them floozies looked like dog’s dinner.”
Loretta, on cloud nine, thanked Mrs. Orlando, tucked the photographs back in her briefcase, and floated to the elevator. She could hardly wait to call Coleman.
The Cobra was in his element. He’d enjoyed telling the suits at One Police Plaza that Harrison and Quintero had been investigated by private detectives when the NYPD refused to do it. He loved giving them a summary of the cops’ misdeeds. When the bureaucrats sputtered that the investigation was retaliation for Harrison’s focus on Dinah Greene, and that they didn’t believe a word of it, he faxed each of them the Fry Building guards’ sworn statements about Harrison’s second job and his girlfriend. He gave them time to read them and called again. He listened with silent joy to their heavy breathing and their abrupt hang-ups. There’d be a crisis at One Police Plaza today, and maybe at city hall.
When he’d wrung every drop of pleasure he could from razzing the top cops and the pols, he telephoned DDD&W’s senior lawyer to enlighten him about Harrison and his relationships with Oscar Danbury and Trixie. He explained that with the departure of Harrison and Quintero, new detectives would be appointed and the case reinvestigated, broadening the list of possible suspects. He reminded him that the Greene Gallery’s assignment would be completed by noon on Friday; the check must be ready and waiting.
He finished with the announcement that he also represented the Prince Charles Stuart Museum, which was suing DDD&W for the recovery of the works of art missing from the Davidson Americana collection. The relevant documents would reach Hunt Austin Frederick today. After he’d completed that call, leaving a shattered lawyer to spread the news inside DDD&W, he leaned back in his chair and sighed. What a great morning.
When Rob called his friend in the DA’s office, he was assured that Patti Sue’s death had nothing to do with their sales tax investigation. “The people at Great Art Management say Ms. Victor was a moron. They’re not sure she knew that she was involved in anything illegal,” Rob’s friend explained. “The DDD&W guys who were sending empty boxes to addresses out of state knew what they were doing, but they say all that Victor did was introduce the greedy louts to Great Art Management. This is how it worked: GAM had a program promoting art for young collectors. When the young collectors Victor introduced to GAM balked at the prices, GAM showed ‘em how to save money through tax evasion. But it was small potatoes—cheap art, and not much tax money involved.”
“What will happen to them?” Rob asked.
“The stupid little thieves will pay their taxes and penalties and go about their business, but if DDD&W management has any brains, they’ll fire ‘em. Cheat once, they’ll cheat again, and maybe bigger. As for Great Art Management, it’s history.”
Rob hung up and thought about what he’d heard. He had no reason to doubt their assessment of Patti Sue—except that she’d been murdered. If every brainless pawn was killed, the planet would be a lot less crowded. Only it didn’t happen. She must have done something to make someone kill her. But what?
The SEC investigator called while he was still thinking about Patti Sue. “I heard about the roundup of the DDD&W tax dodgers,” he said. “I wish I could say I’ve nabbed twenty bad guys. But no one at DDD&W is doing audits. They stopped as soon as the merger went through.”
“Do you mean they’re not doing anything illegal? I can’t believe it,” Rob said.
“I didn’t say that. We think they’re up to plenty, just not auditing. We think you should talk to the New York Attorney General. That woman makes Giuliani and Spitzer look like plump house cats. She goes after corporate corruption like a starving leopard after a gazelle. This could be her kind of thing. She can’t move without hard information, but you should tell her all you know and suspect about these people so she can investigate. We’ll do the same.”
Rob couldn’t see himself calling the AG with optimism based on no evidence. She’d bite his head off. He was trying to decide what to do when Hicks called with the information about insider information at DDD&W. When Hicks heard what the SEC investigator had advised, he volunteered to talk to the AG. Rob sighed with relief. He didn’t mind calling the SEC, but he was terrified by the AG.
Rob’s friend at the SEC was grateful for Rob’s information, and Rob was feeling good about having done a colleague a favor. He was also looking forward to dinner at Dinah’s, where he’d see Coleman, when Coleman called.
“Rob? I just heard from Loretta. She talked to the Victor sisters’ neighbor—the one your guy found—and would you believe the woman identified a photo of Quintero as Frances’s lover? And Leichter as Patti Sue’s? So Leichter is the guy Patti Sue was fighting over. Can you imagine? No wonder Quintero looks so ghastly. Johnson was his sweetheart, and he had to investigate her murder and keep their relationship a secret. I wonder if he really thinks Dinah killed her. He’s not the brightest guy I ever met. Anyway, Loretta did good. I have to hand it to her—she’s enterprising. Oh, and I figured out it was Tom, Jonathan’s driver, who was leaking information about Jonathan’s whereabouts to Harrison and Quintero—he’s admitted it. He told them when Dinah was alone, and they could have told anyone.”
“Oh, God,” Rob groaned. “How the hell did we miss all that? I should fire my guys and hire you and Loretta. Would you ask her to write up her interview with the neighbor and include the time and date, too? And make some copies of the photos? And would you write up how you found out about Tom? The Cobra will want to pass everything on to the police.”
“Those arrests for tax evasion aren’t going to do us a lot of good,” Ted Douglas told Hunt. “Twenty guys…can you believe it? That will make headlines. Thank God all the crooks are from downstairs. That fool Patti Sue really got us into it this time.”
Hunt nodded. “Got herself killed, too. Her death must be connected to the tax fraud, although the DA’s office thinks not. Any ideas about who killed her and her sister, if Dinah Greene is innocent?” he asked.
Ted shook his head. “I still think Dinah did it. But both Patti Sue and Frannie came in with the D&W merger—that was a mistake. We shouldn’t have let it happen.”
“No point saying what we should have done
then
. The question is, what do we do now? Did you get that report from Patti Sue about the Americana collection?”
“No. I asked her for it, but I guess she didn’t have a chance to do it before she was killed,” Ted said.
“Is there any way to get a paper trail on the shipments? Anything we can follow up?” Hunt asked.
“Not that I know of. Ms. Skinner cleaned out Patti Sue’s office when the police said it was okay, just like she did Frannie’s. Says she didn’t find anything useful.”
Hunt sighed. “That lunatic Scot from the museum and the Hathaway lawyer they call the Cobra are going to take us to the cleaners over the missing stuff from that damn collection. One of the lawyers talked to an old biddy who works at the museum, and she told him the name of the shipper, and how many crates they received, and get this: they videotaped the two museum guys unpacking the stuff, said it was standard museum procedure to prevent theft and to verify what arrived. Nothing could have been stolen at the museum. And the shipper videotaped the sealed cartons when they picked ‘em up, and again when they delivered ‘em. They’re in the clear, too.”
Ted frowned. “What could have happened to the missing art?”
“Patti Sue must have packed up the good stuff and sent it somewhere—maybe to a dealer—by a different shipper,” Hunt said.
“Patti Sue? I always thought she made a pine tree look like a genius. She must have had a boyfriend who pulled the strings,” Ted said.
“Somebody who works here?” Hunt asked, startled.
Ted shrugged. “There’s a rumor that Patti Sue and another secretary had a fistfight in the ladies’ room over one of the partners. I thought it was a joke, but maybe it’s true,” he said.
“Oh, hell. Who’d know?” Hunt asked.
“Moose, maybe? I heard a couple of those kids who work for him talking about it in the men’s room,” Ted said.
“I guess I better check out the rumor, and question the Victor woman’s boyfriend, if he exists. Unless we can find the missing art, the partners will have to pick up the tab.”
“Oh, God,” Ted groaned. “I hadn’t thought of that. Will it be a lot of money? Won’t insurance cover it?”
“I think it’ll be a huge number, and I can’t see insurance covering the disappearance of the art unless we can figure out when and how it disappeared. For all we know or can prove, it’s been missing for years, and no one noticed. We’ll call the insurance people, but I doubt if they’ll turn up anything we’ve missed.”
“What a mess,” Ted said.
“You’re telling me. You know they’re pulling off the two cops who were on the case? Starting the murder investigation all over with a new team? Everyone will be questioned again, and all because Danbury hired that ape Harrison as a bodyguard or something. Paid him with DDD&W’s money, too,” Hunt said.
Ted nodded. “Yeah, I know. What a screwup. I’ll be surprised if they ever arrest the person who killed those women.”
Jeb Middleton poked his head in the door to Heyward’s office. “I just talked to Rick Oliver, the guy who wrote Miss Coleman the first letter? He swears he got out of the Colossus business with Miss Coleman the day Jonathan called him. He told Colossus he had a conflict because of a long-standin’ relationship with Jonathan: they went to kindergarten together—it happens to be true. But he hadn’t known Miss Coleman and Jonathan’s wife were related. Colossus didn’t force Oliver to keep botherin’ Miss Coleman, because that fool Black—the guy who writes Miss Coleman the nasty letters—was pantin’ to take over. Sounds like he gets off on beatin’ up their targets, and ‘specially scarin’ ladies. And speaking of scarin’, Oliver sounded scared out of his britches when I told him I was actin’ for you, and that Miss Coleman is your sister. He asked if Miss Coleman had any more kin he ought to know about.”
Heyward smiled. “Will he tell his friends at Colossus?”
“Oh, yes. I asked him to. I said they shouldn’t communicate with Miss Coleman unless they’re apologizin’, and that if they kept on botherin’ her, you’d retaliate. I didn’t tell him that the SEC and the New York Attorney General were prob’ly about to put ‘em out of business,” Jeb said.
“When are you going to contact Colossus directly?” Heyward asked.
“Friday. I’m givin’ them time to reflect on their sins. Then I’ll tell ‘em what happens to bad boys.”
Coleman, with Dolly in her carrier, was the last to arrive for Dinah’s dinner. She was surprised and pleased to see a good-looking stranger with Heyward. Heyward introduced her to Jeb Middleton, and after they’d chatted a while, he seemed even more attractive. She was sure she saw an answering gleam in his eyes.
But she was shocked by Dinah’s appearance. Always slender, Dinah had lost weight she couldn’t spare, and despite an unusual amount of makeup, Coleman could see dark circles under her eyes. She hadn’t realized what a terrible toll the DDD&W problem was taking on her cousin. Annoyed with herself, she vowed to talk to Dinah alone after dinner and try to find out how she could help.
When introductions were completed, and Dinah asked Heyward what brought him to New York, Coleman thought he might talk about her struggles with Colossus, but he raised another topic.
“Oh, this and that. Since I arrived, I’ve been trapping vermin. Everyone here knows about the inside information crimes at DDD&W, and Colossus, but I’ve also been on the trail of the Stubbs. I had the same thought you did, Dinah, that whoever had stolen the paintings would try to sell them in London. I called Rachel this morning, and when she said the only way to learn the identity of the Stubbs’ seller was to buy them, I bought them. The seller is the Davidson Estate, Lucas Parker Esq., Executor. He has no more right to sell the paintings than I do. I’m sure we’ll be able to have him arrested. And, of course, the sale to me won’t go through. The paintings will be held in a London bank while ownership is determined,” he said.
“Parker! I knew he was a bad lot,” Jonathan exclaimed. “Wait till you hear about my discussions with him, and the story of the Davidson family.”
When he’d repeated everything he’d learned, Dinah was the first to speak.
“I don’t believe it,” she said.
Jonathan, frowning, stared at her. “Don’t believe what?”
“The story about those girls never seeing their mother. They had no one. Their father, the only person who didn’t want them to talk to their mother, died when they were little. I think that as soon as they were old enough to use a phone, they called her, long distance.
I
would have,” Dinah said.
Rob rubbed his head. “You may be right, Dinah. I should have thought of that. But I learned today that one of the girls is dead. Margaret killed herself last July. And we still can’t find her sister.”
“Oh, how terrible,” Dinah said. “That poor girl. And her poor twin.”
Dinah went into the kitchen to serve the soup, and Jeb and Coleman followed her to help. But before Coleman left the room, she heard Heyward ask Jonathan how he wanted to handle the problem of Lucas Parker.
“Turn him over to the Firm,” Jonathan said. “They like to handle any Boston legal misdoings. They’ll make sure that Parker gets what he deserves. Do you mind if I call now? The Firm never closes, and some say never sleeps. They’ll take care of Parker, and they’ll do it fast.”
“No, go ahead,” Heyward said, and joined the others in the kitchen.
Jeb, pouring champagne, offered Heyward a glass when he came in the kitchen.
“No, thanks, but I’d like some water,” he said. Coleman brought him the water, and Heyward raised it to toast the group.
“Jonathan is making the call to pull the plug on Lucas Parker. He said he wouldn’t be long. Let’s drink to Justice,” he said.
“And so say all of us,” Coleman murmured.
After delicious turkey stroganoff that everyone but Dinah gobbled up, Coleman turned down Jeb’s, Heyward’s, and Rob’s invitations to ride uptown. She thanked them but insisted on staying to help Dinah clean up. Dinah demurred, but Coleman ignored her and banished Jonathan with a roll of her eyes.